


Underbelly

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [11]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are a vicious, bestial cadre of mechanoids bent on subverting the universe to their will. They are the soldiers of a charismatic zealot who preaches taboo and advocates the merging of flesh and circuitry. They are the Terrorcons and, with every passing day, they claw ever-closer to achieving their secret goal. But who <i>are</i> the Terrorcons? What individual passions fuel their mass-insanity? Come take a walk into the very heart of madness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by [Ursa Magnus](http://www.allspark.com/forums/index.php?showuser=3138)

_The underbelly is soft, the underbelly is weak;_  
Target of the hopeless, cowardly and meek.  
For the hunter, he strides but the Path that is true;  
He faces his prey, and he runs it right through. 

– an Animatros nursery rhyme

 

“Let us pray.”

Predacon watched – carefully – as the congregation took up its positions. In the front row, things transpired as expected. Battle Ravage, Cruel Lock, Bludgeon, Skid-Z and Sideburn bowed their heads and shut down their optics, ready to tread the Path in grace.

Insecticon, predictably, shuffled on the polished steel and lacquered wood of the second pew. Eventually, the ugly little troll genuflected as was required. Next to him, Sharkticon – the coward, the doubter, the wandering fool – struggled with his base instincts and, after a cautious glance toward Battle Ravage, looked at the floor.

Chromia, on Sharkticon’s other side, made a show of closing her optics and smiling; a false portrait of serenity. Predacon was not fooled by her theatrics – one would have to be a far poorer judge of character in order to fall for such a poor deception. Though deadly, the femme’s time would come… the Transmetal Tyrannosaur would see to that.

Wreckloose, Gunbarrel, Terradive and Thunderwing – hunters, one and all – silenced their chatter with embarrassed coughs and joined the silent masses. Predacon had no doubt as to their loyalty. Sky Shadow, who stood a few metres behind, was a different matter. Trickery had been necessary to entice the giant scientist toward the Path, lessening his reliability. Still, Predacon had faith – he always did – that, in time, even the former isolationist would shed his skin and forge ahead.

From a view screen on the cathedral’s back wall, Buzzsaw and Reptilion stilled themselves. Though far away, doing the work of the Path on distant Gigalonia, the missionaries remained devout. Their presence, though impersonal, was greatly appreciated – especially in light of the absence of four members of the faith.

Divebomb, a prisoner of the Autobots, could hardly be blamed for his predicament. Salvation for the avian fighter would come, in due time, when the Path turned toward him once more. As for Wheeljack, Windshear and Crumplezone… well, Predacon knew the struggles that awaited him when he chose to free the serial-killing trio. He opted to forgive them their ignorance, for they knew not what they did.

Yet.

Once understanding had been reached, future apathy would receive the proper response. Of that, Predacon had complete and _utter_ faith.

Nevertheless, Predacon was pleased overall. The turn-out was as strong as the week before, and an improvement on the weeks before that. It was a geometric leap above what the Path had been a decade earlier – when only he and the Terrorcons knew the serene beauty of technorganic existence. All of his recruits… even the most recalcitrant… boosted the cause. The recalcitrant, after all, were merely mechs and femmes in need of enlightenment. Converting them would help convert the rest of the Transformer race.

And once they had turned – once eyes and optics, alike, had been opened – they would be welcome here, in the new heart of the religion. Animatros was no longer the holy land; its place in the faith had been supplanted by Earth. This world, constantly shifting with masses of both animals and machines… secretly alive with plants and micro-organisms; with artificial intelligences in servers world-wide… was the promised land.

One day, his gorgeous cathedral would be too small to hold all of his disciples. The mangrove trees that formed its foundation would strain with the weight; the titanium walls would struggle to handle the girth of the congregation. Mechs and femmes alike would sit in the tiered wood-and-steel pews, row upon row of them, reaching past the bone-and-strut mezzanine and up to the blood-stained crystal ceiling, far above them.

“With grass beneath our claws and flesh betwixt our teeth, we pray,” Predacon boomed.

“We pray,” chorused the congregation.

“As our blood mixes with our oil, our sinew with servomotor and our armour with epidermis, so too do we affirm our resolve.”

“We affirm,” came the echo.

“And by our perfection, our holy transcendence, we vow to eradicate the things we cannot change, alter that which we can, and show the universe our wisdom as to the difference between those dusty roads… we shall lead it down the True Path.”

“The True Path,” the group finished, their voices rising into frenzied howls.

“My brethren,” he said, stepping out from behind the podium, “great news to I bring to you this day. Yes.” He cast his arms wide; the flourish made his crimson-and-gold robes billow with a near-hypnotic effect. The lambskin upon his head wobbled, but remained in place. “Having sought counsel from the winds and the wails; having listened to voices both mechanical and organic; having consumed the wisdom of two worlds, I have today brought you deliverance from our sole remaining ties to the dead world of Cybertron.”

More faithful members of the congregation hissed at the name of the Dead World. Again, Predacon watched carefully – neither Sharkticon nor Sky Shadow joined in, while Chromia’s expression of distaste was typically overwrought and obvious.

He reached beneath his robes and pulled out a fist-sized black cube. Five of its sides were flat and featureless but the sixth… oh, the sixth was perfection itself.

“Though we know we are of the Path, still are we wrongly labelled with the slur ‘Terrorcon’ and burdened with the slave mark of our former allegiance,” he growled. “Our beautiful technorganic forms are _blemished_ with the inferior symbol of a dead army; of a would-be tyrant’s mad plotting!”

“Testify,” Cruel Lock yelled, rising to his feet and clawing the air. “Testify!”

Predacon felt the electricity in the room build. He could taste its ozone tang in the air as it slid down, past his fuel pump, and into his lungs. Soon… soon, it would be time. “I will not stand for it! No! And thus do I bring you, the faithful, the _deliverance_ you have long sought – the _release_ from servitude that marks the Path ever-clearer in the wilderness of warfare, strife and small-minded techno-crats!”

Battle Ravage roared. The loud, shocking sound was not enough to drown out the jittering, babbling mess of words spilling from Skid-Z. The Mini-con was in rapture; frothing at the air vents and jerking spasmodically in place. He spoke no discernable language and, yet, Predacon understood every word – it was the speech of the devout.

Grandly, he raised his arm and held the cube out to the group. On its sixth face was a brand – it glowed purple and red, lit by heat from within the block itself. Its curves and contours formed a stunningly beautiful picture of technorganic perfection. An insect, almost mosquito-like, head was set within sharpened steel edges. Its brow was creased with a circuit board; its segmented eyes were carbon-based and bulbous.

“I give you the symbol of our devotion… the icon to which we rally… a mark that is not ours to own, but shall _own_ all of us! The sigil of the True Path!”

The chaos in the room was near its peak. Battle Ravage was twitching with rapture and blood lust; Wreckloose’s fleshy body rippled with colour and goose-pimples. The Mini-cons pounded on one another, lost in their lust for the hunt; the gnarled, undulating wreck on the floor was barely recognisable as Skid-Z. It was time.

“Sacrament,” Predacon hollered.

He reached back and stabbed a button on the podium; a hatch in the mezzanine swung open. From it tumbled a gaggle of assorted Earth creatures – horses, birds, dogs, cats and random mammals – all screeching and whinnying in terror. They fell, but they never reached the floor. Cruel Lock and the other disciples leaped up, their legs powered by faith, and snatched the blood and body of the Path out of mid-air. Any being that eluded them was impaled, swiftly, on Bludgeon’s bony swords.

Blissful, holy blood splashed across the sacred area; the eldritch gore baptising the space and the beings within it. Born again, the faithful continued to tear gleefully into the symbolic representations of their religion. Those yet to accept salvation drew toward the back of the cathedral and gazed, entranced, at the spectacle of divine fervour.

Predacon had spoken the words, and he knew they were good.

\-----

“Once again, Predacon has acquitted himself meritoriously,” Reptilion said.

“Mmm… and the zzzervice wazz great, too,” Buzzsaw enthused.

For the 203,458,987th time in the preceding decade, Reptilion checked to see if his garishly-hued colleague was joking. Sadly, for the 203,458,987th time, his suspicions as to Buzzsaw’s utter lack of higher processor function were confirmed.

Science, of course, demanded but three repetitions of a phenomena before it was deemed to be proven. Reptilion’s continued observations of his monolithically-natured companion were, therefore, no more than exercises in shoring up one’s own sense of superiority; of reminding oneself of one’s higher place in the universe.

He stepped away from the viewing platform and transformed. As a Transmetal iguana, Reptilion could cover ground almost as quickly as Buzzsaw – who lacked flesh but, as a helicopter, had at least some uses. Using that speed, the propulsion expert dashed across the tundra to his command chair. He transformed once more and took a seat.

At the touch of a button, much of Gigalonia was revealed to him. Geographic scans, metallurgical read-outs, environmental differentials. Each and every bit of it essential to the plan; to the fulfilment of the True Path’s goals. Though Gigalonia was a hollowed-out husk of a world, lacking even the base organics needed to make it worth Predacon’s notice, it nonetheless contained the piece that made the others move.

Somewhere.

“Little skittling botzz reported anything good yet?” Buzzsaw asked. The hapless fool was hovering directly overhead, oblivious to the dust kicked up by his rotors. “Buzzsaw izz getting zzzick of zzzitting around here all the time, even if it izz better than zzzmelly old cave or great big zzztinky mud pile we have to guard!”

“Normally, I would be among the first seeking to advise you of the benefits, both psychological and personality-wise, of a modicum of patience,” Reptilion sighed, never lifting his eyes from his computer screens. “However, I feel the time I have spent rallying against your boorish buffoonery has inoculated me against your virulent, mono-syllabic incompetence, and thus I see no cause to waste my energy on your continued education.”

The helicopter scratched his cranial casing. “Izz frilly lizard-bot talking to Buzzsaw? Because if he izz, he’zz making no sense to Buzzsaw.”

Reptilion suppressed another sigh and keyed the communication console to life. Within a nanosecond, the angular face of Kremzeek filled his display.

“My greetings to you, valued comrade,” the small, yellow mech bowed. “What services may I provide to the purveyors of our liberty?”

“It is but a small matter,” Reptilion said drolly. “Were you able to properly instruct your underlings to direct their exertions toward a more mutually-beneficent purpose, and exhort them to give their all in consummation of our great tasks, I could be on my way and return to my primary role as opposed to continuing my toil on this geographically insignificant planetoid you pathetically refer to as a home world.”

He watched Kremzeek flinch, knowing the reaction was a combination of factors. For one, the leader of the Flyer race was well aware his continued failures had displeased the True Path. The altered Cybertronians had provided the technology needed to make the Flyers self-sufficient; meaning they could produce war machines and plot the re-taking of Gigalonia from the larger, more apathetic Grounder population. Kremzeek knew he stood on rapidly crumbling ground, and that Predacon’s favour would soon evaporate totally.

The other reason for the smaller mech’s discomfort was Reptilion’s own appearance. Though a mech of science, a technical expert rivalling a more well-known member of their race – the late Autobot known as Perceptor – Reptilion had, to put it bluntly, an horrific appearance. His face, since the Transmetal process, was a toothy mass of fangs, prehensile tongue and mucous. It ill befit a researcher but was essential for a warrior.

“A thousand apologies, my most revered ally,” Kremzeek stuttered, “for our tardiness. However, it is but a matter of time before we meet with the success sought by both our factions. There are a finite number of landforms large enough to accommodate the item you seek. We are mining them one-by-one, using their mud to power our wheels and generate our lovely electricity. Patience, please – I beg of you a little more patience.”

Reptilion felt moved to snarl; to express displeasure violently, as he had seen his fellow Path-walkers do in the past. It felt somehow unbecoming to him. Satisfying in the short term, perhaps, but ultimately unproductive. There were some variables even the most highly-skilled scientist could not control; strings of equation that simply would not resolve satisfactorily. He thought of his silenced admonition to Buzzsaw and opted to heed his own unspoken words. Reptilion would exercise the virtue of patience.

“One more month,” he hissed, mixing his restraint with a dash of feral emphasis. “Without progress, there will be retribution.” He jabbed a button with a long, pointed finger, closing the channel and ending the conversation.

“Oooh,” Buzzsaw minced from above. “Frilly lizard-bot playing hardball. Interezzting timezz are afoot, Buzzsaw thinks. Progrezz come much quicker now.”

_It had better,_ Reptilion thought. _The master plan waits for no mech._

\-----

Blood-drenched and gore-caked, Battle Ravage turned. The jaguar’s implacable optics were filled with furious condemnation; with ravenous disapproval. He opened his muscular jaw – releasing a torrent of half-chewed flesh and a cloud of feathers – and growled a horrific, wrenching sound. Though the beast could not speak, the feral expression somehow came out as a single, intelligible word:

“Unbeliever.”

Insecticon shuddered. For ten minutes, he’d been trying unsuccessfully to tear the memory from his processor. The bestial disapproval of his fellow Terrorcon stayed with him, chilling him down to the Spark. Surely the “word” Insecticon had heard was a trick of the audio; some kind of side-effect of the cathedral’s odd acoustics. He knew the story of which so many others remained ignorant – he _knew_ Battle Ravage could no longer speak. Still, being mute made the brute no less dangerous.

The psychological warfare specialist gulped at the lump in his organic throat. Not for the first time, the irony of his military function was plain to see. Though he was deft with a cerebro shell and skilled at pitting friend against friend, Insecticon did not have a handle on triumph through fear. He was a painfully poor intimidator. Battle Ravage was anything but. If the four-legged freak suspected…

“Come forth,” Predacon boomed.

The bug-mech flinched. _His master’s voice,_ he thought dryly. Transforming to beetle mode, Insecticon scuttled toward the self-styled high priest’s personal quarters. Lizard-lips always preferred to see you in your beast mode; it was, he claimed, what separated the Terrorcons from the level of mere Cybertronians.

Cruel Lock passed him in the hallway. The raptor’s optics were swivelling with ecstasy. No surprises there. Though a master tactician, Cruel Lock was so religiously blind that the pain of having his Decepticon symbol burned off, and replaced with a garish pictogram, probably felt like the softest wax-and-shine.

Insecticon had tried to be last in line for the re-branding but, like his efforts in controlling his memories, had met with failure. Sky Shadow had left the cathedral pleading work-related reasons; Sharkticon and Chromia had flat-out refused. Wheeljack’s merry bunch, of course, hadn’t even bothered to show up for the weekly “prayer session”. All that Insecticon had managed to do was end up on the tail of a very small line.

He bustled into Predacon’s chamber. The True Path’s leader had dispensed with his ceremonial robe and head-dress – the lambskin was now atop a mannequin head; the robe hung from a peg on the wall. Predacon, in robot mode, was pacing back and forth along the polished marble floor. Parts of his earth-tone armour were camouflaged against the numerous plant species that filled every corner of the room. The only real open space in the large quarters was inside what humans would have called “the bathroom” – and no one dared venture in there anymore. Gunbarrel had once made a crack about Predacon’s rubber duckie and lived to regret it. He’d been tied up outside and lashed fifty times.

“Not the most popular of your ideas, then?” Insecticon ventured.

Predacon glared at him. One of his teeth was vibrating with the pressure of his grimace. “Your overt familiarity never ceases to irritate, Insecticon. No.”

“It does breed contempt, they say,” the bug-mech cackled, enjoying himself. “I suppose that’s why I stay useful to you, oh great leader… you’re all about breeding loyalty and subservience, so you need someone around to be that pot of ointment’s fly.”

“Your continued use to me,” the Tyrannosaurus muttered, “comes from technical expertise, a unique specialty subject and the strength of numbers. No more than that.”

“And here I thought we were friends, too,” Insecticon giggled. “After all, I’ve lined myself up for this exercise in graffiti despite our numerous… philosophical debates.”

Predacon growled dangerously. Insecticon knew he’d reached the end of his leash. He’d never really understood why he could get away with speaking to Predacon as he did, though he suspected he kept the cultist honest. So many members of the Path were willing to swallow everything the Tyrannosaur said, without question. Others simply refused to cross the Rubicon and used their newfound autonomy to further their own agendas. Insecticon was the doubting Thomas of the group – his defiance, he believed, forced Predacon to think his positions through, and to make them convincing.

“Hold still,” the cultist sneered. His hand came down swiftly, pressing the ebony cube onto Insecticon’s purple symbol. The jagged, jet-like shape melted, warped and re-formed as a purple mosquito’s head. The process was quick but, still, the bug-mech could not suppress a gasp of shock and a grunt of pain.

“That is but the first matter of business between us this day,” Predacon said. “Yes.”

“I’m _honoured_ by your attention, mighty one,” Insecticon deadpanned.

“It has come to my attention,” Predacon continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “that our ranks have been… infiltrated. Subverted. Insidiously.” The words came out as barks of disgust. “One of those among us is a traitor to the cause – worse than that, a heathen who dares sully our holy land with his or her lack of vision.”

He stalked across the room and placed the cube, reverently, in a mahogany box. The thump of the closing lid masked Insecticon’s loud, terrified swallow.

“Though you have your failings – and they are many – I feel the discovery of this traitor is a task best suited to you,” the cultist said, gazing evenly at Insecticon. “Yes. Be it through your guile, your ability to manipulate others into confrontation or your devices of mental control, _find_ this mech… or femme… and _report them to me._ Go.”

Predacon waved his hand; Insecticon almost fell over himself making for the exit. Breath came ragged to his strange-feeling organic lungs; in his haste, he almost toppled a lounging Chromia with his head-stalk.

_Find the traitor?_ he wailed inwardly. _All well and good, normally the sort of task I’d beg for – if only to alleviate the boredom of this Primus-forsaken place. It would be a great job, a fun job, allowing for all sorts of mischief and blackmail._

_But it’s very hard to find the traitor… when you_ are _the traitor!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written by [Ursa Magnus](http://www.allspark.com/forums/index.php?showuser=3138).

_When the lands had been over-hunted and the grasses yellowed with neglect, the masses did turn to the old god. They bade him fall. “Make room,” they cried with one voice, “for we who long to feed! Invest not your fear in_ huntnomore _but instead accept the end that awaits us all.”_

_The elder failed to heed those words. His pride burned too brightly; the flames of his madness ever-fanned to scalding heat. He did take on the form of the Beast and he did fight, pitting servo and sinew against tooth and transistor. As is the way of things, so did he fall. Thus did his bones mark the way to even greater truths along the Path._

– a reading from the texts of the True Path (new, revised edition)

 

Explosions drew them out from their sacred place and into the swamp proper, fangs bared and claws at the ready.

Predacon was right where he belonged – at the head of the pack, blazing the way along the Path to greater glory. Everyone, be they devout or doubter, had responded to the noise of battle. Cruel Lock stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Chromia, their ideological differences forgotten. Bludgeon and Sharkticon – courage and cowardice – flanked one another without complaint.

It was as it should be… as it _would_ be, the further down the Path they all trod.

‘The Autobots? How?” Bludgeon hissed. Predacon was surprised to see concern on those skeletal features. It was, he surmised, not a reluctance to fight but annoyance at having been discovered. The _metallikato_ master, it would seem, prided himself as much on his stealth as his skill with a blade.

“Irrelevant,” Cruel Lock snapped – quite literally, given the size of his jaws. “Spread out, assume the pre-determined attack pattern.” The velociraptor effortlessly slid into the role of field commander – it was one of his many virtues. “Heaviest ordnance to the back; hand-to-hand fighters at the front.”

“Belay that order,” Predacon said, waving his hand, “and move back inside.”

“My lord?” Cruel Lock’s disquiet was obvious.

“Your skill, my dear lieutenant, lies in your high level of tactical readiness. Put simply: you shoot first and ask questions later. It makes you indispensable to me, yes… for I am ever ready to place inquiry before savagery.” He pointed. “Look.”

Both the source of the explosions _and_ the reason for their detonation lay directly ahead. A large portion of the marshes had been sectioned off with land mines; the deadly devices formed a massive square perimeter in the murky bayou water.

Within, Crumplezone swerved back and forth, driving at ever-higher speeds. He was being peppered, from above, by laser fire – bolts that dictated his erratic path. One set of beams came from Windshear, who circled overhead. The other came from the tree line… where Wheeljack crouched behind an energy machine gun.

The True Path members watched silently. Wheeljack and Windshear strafed their accomplice unceasingly, pushing him toward the landmine “fence”. Many times, the neon green trike turned in time to avoid the munitions. Many other times he did not; the conflagrations stripped paint from his bodywork, blew parts from his chassis and threw swamp water hundreds of metres into the air.

“Our pack will not be required,” Predacon said firmly. “No. Go inside, all of you. I will speak with our… wayward charges.”

Muttering and grousing, the group broke up and drifted back into the mangrove-and-steel headquarters. Cruel Lock was the last to go; his unflagging loyalty all but rooting him to the spot. Predacon understood the emotion. He had, after all, sacrificed his first master plan to save his lieutenant’s life; theirs was a bond of brotherhood as much as faith. Still, he shooed his friend away.

“Zookeeper, oh zookeeper,” Wheeljack crowed from his perch. “Look! Look at my talent! I think I could be your new lion tamer – oh please, zookeeper, pick me!”

Predacon transformed to dinosaur mode and activated his back-mounted hover-fans. He lifted a few feet into the air and skimmed over the boggy environment. “Poetry is far from your strong suit, Wheeljack,” he replied. “Your metaphors are quite mixed.”

“No more mixed than your little menagerie back there,” Wheeljack snorted, shrugging in the general direction of the cathedral. “When you think about it, this place is a zoo most of the time; the bars are just made of religious nonsense instead of steel.”

“You would know a thing or two about bars, of course,” Predacon deadpanned.

“But when it’s _not_ a zoo,” Wheeljack continued, undaunted, “it’s a good old-fashioned circus! You let the weirdos and the loonies out to kick up slag and giggles for the folks at home, then force them to fold their tents and run away into the night. It’s pathetic! I mean, we don’t even get to steal any babies to raise as carnie folk!”

Predacon soared up to Wheeljack’s level and shook his head. “You have spent more time here, on Earth, than anyone else on the Path,” he sighed, “and it has done your… colourful vocabulary… no favours. Am I to assume you’re expressing displeasure with your current mission parameters?”

Wheeljack sneered at him – the expression was all teeth and frowning. “I’ve only got two problems right now, lizard lips,” he hissed furiously. “The first is that great lump down there. His clumsiness has cost me at least six kills. I can’t afford that sort of inefficiency – not when I’ve been out of the game for a decade.”

He fired another salvo at Crumplezone; Predacon could see the perverse glee he took in the exercise.

“And so you’re training your partner to be more responsive?” the dinosaur chuckled. “Ensuring he won’t run you down, once again, in the dark? Seeking to guarantee he won’t drive off any more oil rigs and play submarine?”

The serial killer’s expression further darkened. _Yes, Wheeljack, there is little I don’t know about any mission undertaken by the Path,_ Predacon thought. _Now you are aware of that fact, you’ll perhaps tread more carefully in future._

“My other problem,” Wheeljack said, regaining his composure, “is the false bill of goods you sold me. Ten years under the security cameras is a _long_ time, tall and scaly. Sensor invisibility was part of the deal.” He patted his shoulder. “My new arm and hand have a gesture for you, but it’s very Terran and you probably wouldn’t understand.”

Predacon ground his teeth together. “The issue is being investigated,” he said finally. “My expectation is that it will be a temporary issue. The Path thanks you, nonetheless, for passing on such vital intelligence… and for the not-insignificant sacrifices made in garnering it for the cause.”

“Bite me,” Wheeljack spat. He paused, taking a long, cautious look at Predacon’s snout. “Not literally, of course.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Predacon dropped down and began to glide toward the cathedral. “Your training session is cancelled, Wheeljack – it’s far too noisy and likely to draw attention to our location. Disarm the bombs and come inside, immediately. You three missed a very important meeting this morning; there are… alterations… of which you must be made aware.”

He glared over his shoulder, eyes blazing. “This is not a suggestion, might I add. No.”

\-----

Given the animalistic nature of the place, Insecticon felt it was only appropriate to be hunting for a scapegoat.

Through segmented eyes, he watched the Terrorcons file back into the cathedral. His biggest problem was deciding _who_ to point the mandible at. Were to fool Predacon, he had to supply a patsy that was both logical and compelling. There was no shortage of personal agendas and strange character quirks amongst the True Path members, of course, but which combination of factors would prove most compelling?

Bludgeon stalked by, his hollow eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Insecticon considered him carefully. Bludgeon had been, as far as anyone could tell, missing during the Battle of Iacon. Indeed, few could remember seeing him around in the months leading up to that ill-fated campaign. Rumours of need-to-know wetworks operations followed his bony skid plate around but, with Megatron gone, no one would ever know for sure. Could that be twisted by a cunning bug? With but a touch of thought, surely Insecticon could construct a net of lies with which to snare Mr Spooky.

What of Wreckloose? He was another non-player in the Iacon conflict; records showed he was one of the first over the walls and, therefore, one of the first taken out. His high level of organic composition was less for show and more for survival – he’d joined the Path so the Transmetal technology could grant him mobility and a new lease on life. Such motives smacked of self-interest… if presented to Predacon the right way, Wreckloose’s supposed loyalty could be viewed as an infiltration gambit by a mercenary mech.

Sinister wheels turned within his troll-like brain, griding both ideas into fine powder… before discarding them. Both Wreckloose and Bludgeon were honour-bound types; noble warriors and dedicated hunters. Assigning them deeper, more complex motives would take preparation time – minutes and hours Insecticon simply did not have.

No, his scapegoat needed to be more obvious and direct. That excluded any and all of the really devout followers and also the Air Assault Team – none of them were bright enough to play double agent convincingly.

Struck by a sudden thought, his mood brightened. Insecticon laughed. Why, it was simplicity itself! Predacon had already been looking sideways at Chromia, and the bug just _knew_ the femme was up to something. In his current state of agitation, the cultist could easily be nudged in her direction… with fatal results for Chromia, and beneficial ones for Insecticon.

The laugh turned into a cackle as he transformed, bustled up a corridor wall and made his way, along the ceiling, to the barracks.

\-----

Ever the isolationist, Sky Shadow had insisted on constructing his lab outside the True Path’s headquarters. Predacon had to pass through his glorious wood-and-steel monolith and out its rear entrance, then traverse more marshes, to reach it.

The lab had been situated on the edge of the bayou, nestled into a clearing. Sky Shadow had insisted he be allowed to work on dry, solid land for the betterment of his experiments. Predacon had not liked the idea but had only now found reason to complain. The once-neutral scientist had, after all, been responsible for one the True Path’s two great advantages over their disgustingly mechanical foes.

Yes, the Terrorcons had been sensor invisible since the Battle of Iacon. The changes wrought upon Predacon’s genetic structure by the Plasma Energy Chamber were easily transferred to his loyal subjects by way of skin graft. The process, however, was both painful and in contradiction to all of his beliefs – once you took on flesh, you rendered it unto no one. Sharing did not advance you along the Path.

With Sky Shadow’s seduction came his cloning technology, and the solution to the problem. Those who had embraced the purity of Transmetal could incorporate Predacon’s altered cells into their own bodies, rendering them invisible to the eyes of the arrogant and deluded. Carrying such cells on their persons granted the same boon to those unable to, or yet to, ascend.

Thus could all walk the Path without the piercing gazes of the ignorant… until the Autobot called Jazz figured out a way around their holy transcendence.

He did not announce himself; instead flinging open the lab’s steel door and barging inside. “I expect answers, Sky Shadow,” he boomed. “One does not surrender a decade-long advantage in a single night. You _will_ update me!”

A sigh whispered from the other end of the room – a long-suffering sound. “There is precious little on which I can update you,” came the dour reply. “This is not a problem which can be answered by technology.”

Sky Shadow stepped into view. The dim lighting of the lab nevertheless cause the gemstone in his forehead to sparkle – Predacon was glad for his immunity to its hypnotic properties. The scientist was much larger than the cultist and, perhaps, more powerful. As always, Predacon found himself back-pedalling – forsaking fury for guile when speaking with the gloomy, mortality-obsessed genius.

“The Path cares not for science, Sky Shadow,” he said. “No. The Path is about _faith_ , as is our friendship.”

The larger mech shook his head. “Your religion, Predacon, is a perversion of science,” he said with unexpected rancour.

“Have a care, mech of science,” Predacon warned, his eyes flashing. “You tread ever closer to blasphemy.”

Sky Shadow was undaunted. “If you truly did develop the Transmetal process yourself, as your ‘holy texts’ claim, then you too were once a scientist,” he spat.

“I did,” the dinosaur nodded, “and I was. A xenobotanist, in fact.”

“An interesting and pointless admission that supports my point. At its very heart, the True Path is not a genuine religious belief. Mixing flesh and metal, for the strength and betterment of both, is a form of evolution – making something more than the sum of its parts. That is _science_ , Predacon. You have taken a scientific truth, proven by yourself, and twisted it to you’re your own ends. You have made yourself the high priest of a scientific textbook.”

Predacon bristled. A growl rumbled low in his throat. “Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” he said dangerously. “And perfected science is the foundation of faith. Would you not agree that science is a key to understanding the fundamental forces of the universe… and _controlling_ those forces is a pursuit best left to the devout?”

“I’m _here_ , aren’t I?” Sky Shadow snapped. “Despite your empty promises of a higher level of understanding, of flesh being able to elevate my own work – of precious contact with Overcast, finally achieved – being within your ranks has done naught.”

Predacon struggled to compose himself. Such venomous opposition was, he supposed, understandable. Tensions within the congregation were threatening to turn a 10-year scheme into a last-minute mutiny.

To come to fruition, his master plan required three elements. The first was the Global Space Bridge, and he had yet to truly conquer the tunnel system. The second was whatever time-displacement technology the Autobots were using – as exemplified by Armourhide’s lost limb. The third was secreted somewhere on Gigalonia, eluding Reptilion’s best efforts at recovery.

His more… strained… relationships had been borne out of promises. Those promises drew strength from his master plan. Without success in his myriad gambits, and soon, the pack would turn on him as it had, once before, on Flame Convoy. Predacon had no desire to share his former god’s molten, fiery fate.

Sky Shadow sighed again. “Yet I remain… and, today, I tell you that you have lost your upper hand permanently.” He plucked a computer disc from a bench and flicked it at Predacon. “The Autobots have not found a way to detect us – they have merely learned to look for our _absence_ in a battle.” He laughed nastily. “They look where the tall grass has flattened and find the tiger – a metaphor which should appeal to you.”

 _You are, as Wheeljack would put it, a “nut job”,_ Predacon thought contemptuously. _Really and truly._

“Ours is not an invisibility that can be fine-tuned,” the jet concluded. “Sensors are blind to us; that is where our advantage begins and ends. We cannot get into a sensor battle of trying to be _just invisible enough._ We cannot actively tune the ability so it matches environmental factors. We will simply have to… make do.”

Predacon set the disc down on another bench. “I feel no need to double-check your findings,” he said casually, trying to smooth over the conflict. “You have, as I said before, my complete faith. I will speak to Cruel Lock, and we will alter our strategies accordingly. Once we have word from Reptilion, our plans…”

“Whatever _they_ are,” Sky Shadow sneered.

“… will move into their next phase. Patience… and belief… is all that’s required.” He reached around and pulled the branding cube from a panel on his side. “In the meantime, Sky Shadow…”

The scientist glared at him. “Spare me your art project,” he sniffed. “You have my services, Predacon… not my devotion. As a scientist, I define my life by results – the quantifiable. Once I see hard proof of the benefits of your scheming, I may then be prepared to place a mark upon my armour. But not before.”

Nine million years without a faction symbol, Predacon noted, did not end easily.

“Very well,” he said, returning the cube to its resting place. “Thank you for the update, Sky Shadow. I will, as I said, convey it to the others. I hope to have good news for you when next we speak.”

But the larger mech had already turned his back and begun working on another project.

 _Arrogant, conceited idiot,_ Predacon blustered to himself. He stormed out of the lab. _Imagine, having the nerve to address me in such a manner! Insecticon, Wheeljack, Sky Shadow… such effrontery cannot long be countenanced! No! My pack is becoming rowdy, my flock wayward – action is required, and quickly._

\-----

She left the lights off – it was better that way.

Chromia eased into her quarters and started removing her outer battle armour. She was among the select few Transformers who maintained a stripped-down robot mode beneath their combat hardware. Once all members of their race had been built in such a fashion, but the strain of constant warfare had altered the way protoforms were generated. Others had “upgraded” to a singular robot chassis to increase their battle readiness.

The thought of joining those losers had never occurred to Chromia. The long list of mechs she’d twisted around her fingers… manipulated into serving her ends, thanks to the allure of her sleek chassis… was reason enough to stay as she was. Besides: she _liked_ being sleeker than everyone else. Why try to improve upon perfection?

She slipped the armoured wings from her back – another trick of being a “shell former” – and removed her shin guards. Upper torso armour came next and she stretched in the darkness, grateful to be free of the bulk. Chromia had no intention of letting anyone in this freak factory see the “real her”, hence the lack of lighting. She took no chances. The last thing she needed was to find herself trapped in a room, half-dressed, with a drooling, leering, ogling Terrorcon.

With a clunk and a crash, her legs were knocked out from beneath her. Chromia fell, shouting, and slammed her head into the side of her recharging chamber. Instinctively she raised her right arm, but the missile launcher was, like the rest of her armour, gone. A vice-like grip snagged the flailing limb, pinning it by her side. No, it wasn’t a grip – it was a _foot_ , stepping on her arm! A second foot – pointed, almost serrated underneath – gouged into her left forearm and held it still.

Chromia peered into the darkness. Two emerald eyes hovered above her.

“It seems, lady femme, that you and I share some issues,” a voice snarled.

“Sharkticon?” she asked, incredulous. “What the frell do you think you’re doing? Let me up, right now, or everyone in this base is going to get a lesson in Cybertronian true crime history, and your part in it!”

“I’d shut up if I were you… Thunderblast.”

A second rebuke caught in her synthesiser. “I… uh, I…” she stammered.

“Please,” Sharkticon sighed, “save us both the time and the useless denials. I _heard_ you back on Cybertron. Heard Nightbeat and Thundercracker, too, having their little chat about you.”

He sniggered. “Didn’t realise I was there, did you? Even Cruel Lock thought I was still on the ship, waiting for the rest of you to catch up. That’s the benefit of secrets, Chromia. When no one knows what you’re capable of, they leave you to your own devices.”

He took on a thoughtful tone. “I could have killed you then, you know?”

Chromia struggled against his crushing force. “Then the… files I’ve kept on… you would all go out,” she grimaced. “Everyone… would know you’re… a killer…”

“And thus, I stayed my hand,” he said theatrically. “Until now, anyway.”

She still couldn’t see him, and it was infuriating. A red glow appeared, to the right of his optics. A second later something _exploded_ in Chromia’s naked midsection, wracking her with pain. Though disoriented, she realised what he’d done – he’d fired up the afterburners mounted on his forearms and delivered a rocket punch to her body!

“Let’s have a chat, little one,” he growled. “I’ve spent a lot of time with you, these past 10 years, doing bits and pieces of dirty work. That’s more than enough time to understand how you work. No doubt the information about me is stored under some sort of time code. You’d have to periodically refresh the code or it’d go out to the rest of the Terrorcon team. Right?”

The red glow reappeared.

“Yes! Right!” she gasped.

The glow subsided. “Killing you now… then covering it up, as I do so well… would be satisfying but ultimately counter-productive,” he chuckled. “Oh, this _is_ fun. Especially with what happens, should my tap on the communication system register a nasty transmission.”

“What the frack are you talking about, you psycho?”

Sharkticon’s glowing optics narrowed – he was smiling. “Recordings,” he said happily. “Crystal-clear recordings of your… chats… with Thundercracker and Arcee, and of his explanations to Nightbeat about your relationship.

“Which do you think Predacon will find more unappealing? That you’ve kept secrets from him? That you co-habited with an Autobot sympathiser is a _most_ unreligious way? Or that you have insight into one of our most dangerous, implacable foes and have chosen to keep it all to yourself, all this time? Hey – maybe he’ll kill you for _all three_ of them!”

Chromia frowned. “I suppose I know what you want,” she hissed. “I’ll scrub my info if you delete yours, all right? We both walk away clean.”

A haunting laugh filled her aural cavities. “Not so fast, wrench. I’ve been sucking your vapour trails for ten long years, so a little extra satisfaction is in order. We’ll do a mutual information delete, all right… _later._ ”

She heard a hissing noise. Something wet brushed her face; a foul stench filled her olfactory sensors.

“One of the pleasant side effects of my characteristic odour,” Sharkticon said conversationally, “is that the nanites within it also generate a null-com field. That’s a soundproof zone which blocks all transmissions. You and I are going to have a bit of quiet time, lady femme, before we finally part ways.”

Chromia looked up in panic. There were red glows on _both_ sides of his optics now, building in heat and intensity. The illumination caught on the wafts of smoke billowing through her quarters – she could at last see her attacker, just when she didn’t want to. Sharkticon was not grinning; his face was a sombre mask of purpose.

His left fist buried itself in her midsection. Chromia knew she was screaming, but she _couldn’t hear herself._

\-----

Insecticon recoiled from his listening device. The null-com field had rendered the trinket useless; still, he’d heard more than enough.

On the one hand, it was disappointing. Chromia was an ill fit for his scapegoat. Like the others he’d considered, she was a trifle too complex to work with in the time he had available. Sharkticon, too, was quite the can of worms.

He smiled. No, he’d not waste their delicious secrets on Predacon’s witch hunt. There would be other ways to protect his shell. Chromia and Sharkticon, he felt, were best left for another day… when both manipulators could be twisted into _his_ service.

\-----

Cruel Lock had wanted him to ignore the message.

“It’s a broad-beam transmission,” the velociraptor had said as he bent over the communications console. “It means he has no idea where we are. It’s like he’s thrown his message to the winds, hoping we’ll pick it up.”

“Not hoping,” Predacon had replied happily. “Praying. For deliverance.”

“He’s suggested a location within the Global Space Bridge… deep enough that it would take hours for back-up, on either side, to arrive.”

“A show of penitence, Cruel Lock,” Predacon had crooned. “You worry too much.”

“As you’ve said, my lord, it’s my function.”

“Be not afraid, my disciple,” he had replied, seeking to ease his friend’s fears. “This is precisely the sort of moment for which we’ve longed. An Autobot has made _contact_ with us, no doubt seeking the acute understanding we possess. He wishes to share in our grace and glory… soon he will learn there is no sharing in the True Path, but that he is welcome to _seize_ a place on our holy ground.”

“By your grace,” Cruel Lock had said, “and on your head be it.”

That had rankled, Predacon admitted to himself. If Cruel Lock voiced displeasure, then the situation was dire indeed. He’d not looked at things from a tactical perspective in a long time – now that his eyes had been opened, he realised the dearth of performance his schemes had suffered. Still, a new recruit… an _Autobot_ recruit… would serve to raise morale. A well-timed change of allegiance brightened even the dimmest of moods.

He paced the GSB tunnel. The co-ordinates had led the Tyrannosaurus to a section still partially blacked-out from the previous battle. Oh, how he longed to possess this technological marvel for his own! Quite beyond its pivotal role in his master plan, Predacon continued to admire the way in which it blended circuitry with geology, aping the passage of neural networks through freshly-hunted flesh. It was _art_.

He heard the sound of engines… of tyres on bitumen… of transformation. The horrid, clanking, mechanical noise set his teeth on edge but he tried not to show it. No sense in discouraging his new disciple before the Transmetal compatibility test was even underway now, was there?

“I can’t tell you how _thrilled_ I was to receive your message,” Predacon enthused, stepping toward the newcomer and waving his little dinosaur limbs. “Yes. You of all mechs – well, this is a pure _delight_. I am assuming, of course, that you’ve come to discuss matters of faith with me?”

A youthful, yet determined, face looked the Transmetal up and down, taking in every detail. Red-and-gold bodywork flexed; the last vestiges of exhaust dribbled away from forearm-mounted pipes.

“Yes,” Rodimus said. “I have.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written by [Ursa Magnus](http://www.allspark.com/forums/index.php?showuser=3138).

_“Heed my words, cub. The grains of truth I give you, this day, were scooped from the rough surface of the Path itself. In the wild, judge not a creature by appearance. Render opinion on sight alone, and present as pray you shall. ‘Tis action upon which you must base your opinion. Watch for movement, for habits, before you stalk, overrun and devour. That way, be you sure your choice is sound; your judgement made not in error.”_

– a reading from the texts of the True Path (new, revised edition)

 

“Nice symbol.”

Predacon turned his snout toward his back and admired the insignia newly-emblazoned there. “It is,” he replied. “I’m glad you noticed.”

He watched as Rodimus – the Autobot cavalier, heir apparent to the Creation Matrix – folded his fiery arms and tapped one foot. “Odd choice, though, isn’t it? Picking a bug to serve as your standard?”

“Ah, my young Templar,” Predacon chuckled, almost affectionately. “In all your time here on Earth, have you even bothered to take note of the dominant life form? You think humans are the masters of this planet. Yes. But the reality is the masses of males and females are vastly outnumbered.”

He grinned, bearing row upon row of saurian teeth. “The real masters of this world are its _insects,_ ” he explained in the patient tones of a lecturer. “They number in the hundreds of billions. The very model of naturally-occurring biomechanical evolution. The perfect melding of structure, form, and function. Hence, our sigil.”

The technorganic dinosaur took a deep breath, gazing at the splendour around them. “This entire world, by its very nature,” he crooned, “seeks to follow the True Path!”

Rodimus nodded. “It’s not the only one, is it?” he said. “Wheeljack, Chromia, Sharkticon… all sorts of mechs and femmes are jumping ship. I can’t say as I’ve heard from Starscream, lately, but I’ll bet he’s upset about the power you’re amassing.”

“Starscream?” the Tyrannosaur scoffed. “He is but a voice from the past.” He waved a limb dismissively. “Yes. I’ve not heard from the trainee tyrant in more than a decade… since Iacon, in fact. He has no bearing on what _we_ will do, my friend.”

A withering look crossed the Autobot’s face plate. His lower lip twisted; his eyebrow ridge raised quizzically. “We?” he asked.

Although Predacon’s organic throat went dry, his face hardened – keeping its casual, unaffected expression. _My hope, it would seem, was misplaced,_ he muttered under his breath. _I believed the virtues of the Path had won over another disciple. How glorious a soldier he would have made. Sadly, it appears he suffers from the same low levels of intelligence as the rest of his filthy brethren!_

“A figure of speech,” he said, dismissing it all with a wave of his stubby arm. “Nothing more. Whatever else we may or may not be, Rodimus, those of the Path do not concern themselves with the mewling of Starscream. We seek only truth – even as it strains to embrace us, and wrap us in technorganic purity.”

“Truth?” the Autobot spat. “I find that very hard to believe, coming from you of all mechs. I don’t think that serpent’s tongue of yours could wrap itself around a single grain of truth without _burning_ on contact.”

 _Such vehemence!_ Predacon thought. _Would that I could break through his racism and mould him into something truly terrifying! A cheetah, perhaps a lion… a perfect fit for such a feisty, yet cunning, warrior. A big cat, ready to lead a pride! Of course I shall… in time. For soon, he and his kind will have but two choices: unleash their inner beasts, or be melted down like the mechanical cages they are._

“See you any deception?” Predacon asked. “Our way is true in both name _and_ nature. It is but an _extension_ of Primus’ vision – completely compatible with the Templar ways you seek to follow.

“Our creator begat the Transformers, and the Transformers begat the Transmetals. The one becomes the many, and the many become _more_ than they were before.”

Rodimus snorted. “Nice speech, but I’m not buying. I’ve got a very clear idea of how your ‘religion’ came about, and all it took was a little bit of research.” He walked forward, coming nose-to-snout with Predacon. “You remember research, right?” he rasped. “You used to live by it… Brushguard.”

\-----

“Waaagh!”

The sudden crash, a few hundred feet ahead, caused Side Burn to leap out of his chassis. Not literally, fortunately – though it felt like it. The ruby-coloured Mini-con clutched his chest with one hand, silently willing his fuel pump to idle back down.

Suitably prepared, he managed to weather three more crashes without over-reacting. If anyone quizzed him, though, he’d give them a piece of his processor.

“This was supposed to be a short-term job, all right?” he’d yell at them. “I volunteered to spy on Predacon, for the Autobots, because I’m the best. But nobody told me I’d still be doing the job 14 years on! Or that these mooks would go from being small-and-zealous to public enemy number one! You show me a mech who can handle that kind of deep-cover pressure _without_ a few mental cracks, and I’ll show you a slagging liar!”

Side Burn rocked back and forth to calm himself down. He’d never say anything like that, of course. He valued his reputation – not to mention his life – too much. Being inside the True Path was frightening; working side by side with Predacon was downright terrifying. Worst of all, after 14 years, he still had no real clue as to his “partner’s” ultimate goals. All he knew was oil-chilling strength of the zealot’s will to succeed.

“Keep the noise down, will you?” he barked at the sound of another crash. “You monkeys’ll get fed if you just shut up for a moment!”

He pushed the trolley down the corridor, wheeling it up against the electro-bars of the containment cell. Putting on his game face, he shot a cold glare at Kicker and Misha Jones. “Back up,” he growled, “ or you get squat.”

The humans had been prisoners for weeks now – and Side Burn still had no idea why. Kidnapping them had been a massive operation without any real pay-off… all they did was sit around and consume supplies.

Side Burn longed to tell them who he was, but he couldn’t. For one, he’d been ordered not to break cover until he knew, _precisely,_ what the True Path was up to, and what it was all about. And secondly, he had no way of contacting his commanding officer, Crosswise. Assuming Crosswise was even still alive, after the Battle of Iacon.

Unbroken, Kicker stared holes of resentment into Side Burn’s chassis. The female, Misha, was curled up on a rough bunk. The Mini-con had heard her sobbing, once, about something called “Koji”, but he had no idea what that was about, either.

It was so _blasted_ frustrating, to have risked so much and learned so little.

Like always, Side Burn channelled his disquiet into his work. He chucked the food into the humans’ cage in a suitably Decepticon way – not that he’d say that to Predacon – and stormed back out, looking every bit as angry as he felt. He was close to going loopy or developing CINS, he just knew it.

As the cell bars hissed and crackled into place; a steely hand grabbed him by the shoulder. This time, he couldn’t stop himself from jumping.

“Got a minute?” Skid-Z hissed. Side Burn looked into his fellow Mini-con’s implacable yellow optics and felt his oil chill, all over again.

\-----

“You’re very secretive,” Rodimus said, staring evenly into Predacon’s eyes, “and there’s little known about you as a result. Even now, with the Autobots in control of Cybertron and in possession of the Decepticons’ databases, we have next to no information on your history, your military career, your origins. And you, well, you’re not telling anyone. Not _directly_ , anyway. There’s a hint dropped here, and a casual comment there, but unless you sit down and connect all the dots… unless you wake up and smell the bolphunga… you’re gonna miss it.”

Predacon chuckled. “What do you think you know, cavalier?”

“I know,” Rodimus said, nodding emphatically, “but do _they_? Your disciples, I mean. Have you told them how, millions of years ago, mechs were selected to go into deep space and search for other life-forms? Mechs like Overcast, Swerve and Overhaul. But Swerve never left Cybertron, of course. A bout of _corrodia gravis_ put the kibosh on his trip. That meant a replacement had to be found at really late notice, and the only mech still available… was Brushguard.”

He started walking a circle around the Tyrannosaur. “Brushguard the xenobotanist, a field so specialised you can’t even fit a finger in its niche. Protégé of the late Cryotek and, like his teacher, utterly convinced of the benefits of technorganic life and the survival of the fittest. He was sure that sprinkling organic matter between the nanites would help every protoform grow up stronger, faster, more _alive._

“It was just the sort of idea that makes you a laughing stock. But Brushguard, he was a tough sort. He could have cared less what Red Alert and those stuffy intellectuals thought. That confidence – some would say arrogance – made him the _very last mech_ anyone would put in a starcruiser and give an open remit to explore the universe. Yet there he was, by default. How lucky.”

Rodimus looked up. “Did I mention _corrodia gravis_ comes about only after exposure to off-world plant matter? Red Alert cured the disease upon examining the rusted-out hulk that used to be Cryotek. The old boy died with a smile on his face plate, like he was proud of his killer’s ambition, or something.”

Again, their eyes met. Predacon’s gaze was cool, unaffected. He watched Rodimus’s frustration build, his jaw clench… and still said nothing.

“Grimlock called it, didn’t he?” the younger mech pressed on. “Back on Animatros, when he said you were an ‘import model’. Big Grim couldn’t care less about a foe’s past, as long as the foe is up in his face and ready to be squashed. Now, I’m no Nightbeat, but I can read mission reports and cross-reference them with strange things I’ve heard. Like how to care for your bolphunga.”

Rodimus stormed back toward Predacon, pushing his chest plate into the dinosaur’s technorganic hide.

“After you crash-landed, the Purple Masks found you, right?” he hissed. “They kept you alive despite the Energon-rich environment… and the _pain_ it caused you. Wanting to save your own chassis, you conned Flame Convoy into commissioning the Transmetal process – that one big dream – and using it on Overhaul first.

“Once he’d survived – become Ligerjack – _then_ you were ready to undergo it yourself. Throwing off your old name and life, you became Predacon. And things were great for you – as predicted, the process gave you enhanced strength and healing. Suddenly, everyone on Animatros wanted to go gooey, and you were their hero. Boom: instant messiah. Instant _false_ messiah.”

He jabbed an angry finger at Predacon. “Underneath all that stolen flesh and scriptural nonsense is a twisted scientist running on fumes of arrogance. You’re not walking a True Path, buddy, you’ve taken a wrong turn – and as an agent of Primus, I won’t stand for it. I’ve seen what lies between us and the Matrix, and it’s not technorganic. Your ‘religion’, Predacon, is built on the torture of others. No good can come from a way of life that demands you strip others of their life – de-flesh them for your own ends!”

He lowered his hand. “You get once chance, he said darkly. “That’s why I’m here, right now. Walk away from your sick beliefs and end this guerrilla war, today. I know you’re capable of it – the truce we had, in these very tunnels, shows I’m right. As a Templar of the Matrix – as an Autobot – I extend the hand of peace to you. Use that brain of yours for something other than perversion, Brushguard, and take it.”

Rodimus reached out with an ebony hand. Predacon looked contemptuously at the steely digits and snorted, coating them in a fine spray of organic fluids.

“Do you know what they say about warfare, Templar?” he sighed. “Misinformation and treachery keep the wits sharp. Yes.”

Predacon transformed and drew up to his full height. “Yours is a parable that, depending on one’s viewpoint, could be instructional or judgemental. It’s an interesting tale.

“Here’s another.”

\-----

Skid-Z had always been… different.

Even before the war – before Autobots, Decepticons and Unicron – the brown-and-gold Mini-con hadn’t fit in with his colleagues. Upon meeting him again, having joined the cult, Side Burn had remembered Skid-Z as an outcast; a social misfit desperate for something to believe in and someone to accept him.

Predacon had provided both, though it had done little to balance Skid-Z. If anything, he’d staggered closer and closer toward the edge of madness as other members of the Path underwent the Transmetal process. In his processor’s optic, Side Burn could still see his colleague’s reaction when he turned down the chance to go technorganic; his angular face plate had burned with the heat of a smelting pool.

“You do a lot of work down here, in the detention area,” Skid-Z said matter-of-factly. “I need your help with something.”

Side Burn cocked an optical ridge. “Is this the something that made a big crash a few minutes back?”

The other Mini-con nodded. “For a while now, I’ve had this problem,” he whispered, his voice nearly inaudible. “You like helping mechs out with their problems, right? Assisting others as they walk along the Path to enlightenment?”

“To assist in the hunt is a duty,” Side Burn recited robotically. “To share the kill is heresy. The line between the two is drawn by the Path.”

Skid-Z smiled beneath his face plate – you could tell because of the way his optics wrinkled. Without another word, he gestured for Side Burn to follow.

They walked past not only Kicker and Misha, but a set of empty cells. Skid-Z’s shuffling, unhurried gait wasn’t helping his anxieties… the Mini-con walked in a death march.

That brown head nodded toward the last cell in the row. Side Burn turned to look… and felt his sump lurch with nausea. There were four humans inside – all females, all terrified. Each one was “pretty”, as far as Side Burn understood human aesthetics, and dressed in high-end clothing. His sensors detected high levels of perfume and cosmetics.

“What in the Pit have you done?” he breathed.

“No,” Skid-Z rasped, “it’s what _you_ are going to do.”

An electric jolt ran the length of his body, corrupting vital synapse relays and distorting his equilibrium. Side Burn fought to stay conscious, clawing at both the cell bars and Skid-Z’s frame. The more he touched, the more electricity he conducted and the greater his pain. Unconsciousness, when it came, was horrifyingly blissful.

\-----

Predacon sat down on the bitumen. There would be no fighting today, he knew, without his instigation. Rodimus had come in the role of crusader, determined to convert a heathen; this was Predacon’s opportunity to prove how narrow his views really were.

“You know of Soundwave, the Decepticon communicator,” he began. “Unlike most of our race, he was reluctant to work with the Mini-cons – even when Megatron anointed them as the source of ultimate power. Spurning his master’s decree, Soundwave opted to instead groom smaller, weaker Transformers as his servants… as his slaves.

“Two mechs cursed with the communicator’s attentions are well known to you – Battle Ravage and, as he is now known, Divebomb. They duo laboured under his cruel tutorial for many vorns. It is an understatement to say Soundwave’s reputation as a spy was built on the sacrifices of his team, who suffered brutally for their master’s acclaim. Whether they succeeded or failed, they were punished – so exacting were his standards, so uncompromising were his demands.”

He laid his tail-whip down in front of him. Rodimus, still metres away, remained standing, a portrait of tension.

“Battle Ravage and Divebomb – who had a different name, back then – were dubbed ‘Squawk Talk’ by their master. In Soundwave’s opinion, all Divebomb did was screech and complain in the manner of a coward. Battle Ravage, meanwhile, refused to be silent and, on every occasion, questioned his master’s decisions and derided him for his cruelty. The punishments he endured, as a result, were of the most obscene nature.

“Eventually, Soundwave tired of Battle Ravage’s disobedience. In one motion, he tore the synthesiser from the jaguar’s throat and crushed it. Then, in a display of malice most vile, he worked to ensure Battle Ravage would never be able to speak again.”

He grinned horribly. “Let me assure you, Autobot, that when the doyen of sound renders you mute, you remain beyond the help of any technology. Forever.”

Gratifyingly, Rodimus shuddered.

“He cast them out, choosing Laserbeak to fill their place,” Predacon said, trailing a lazy finger over the bitumen. “Though a craven coward, Divebomb was ashamed by his inaction – for he had watched the whole affair from behind his wings. Galvanised by his shame, the avian resolved he would never again be a victim… not for the Autobots, nor for the Decepticons. He threw himself into training and, in time, became the viciously deadly beast we know him to be today. A side-effect of his early life, however, remained. He equated failure with humiliation and therefore, upon defeating an enemy, took steps to destroy their self-esteem as well. I believe your Dinobot comrade, Swoop, is well acquainted with this concept.

“On the other hand, Battle Ravage retreated into animalistic fury. His robot mode was all-but forgotten; taken on only in the most dire of circumstances. He was left but three methods of communication: growling, translation through Divebomb – by virtue of their long friendship – and direct, savage action.

“The duo found themselves designated ‘Terrorcons’; first under the command of Scorponok and, following his demise, my rule. It was destiny pure and simple; without knowing it, they’d already been walking the Path.”

Standing up, he spread his arms wide. “And witness them now! Two of the most perfect blendings of metal and flesh; instruments of devotion as well as destruction. Above any in their pack, Battle Ravage and Divebomb represent the very nature of the Path.

“Ours is not a quest for power, nor glory, nor hollow conquest. Ours is a holy ritual of purification, of ascension, of perfection. By thinning the herds of the weak, ignorant unbelievers, both disciples became _more_ than the rest of their race. Transformer evolution, as begun by Primus, taken to its religious _and_ scientific endpoint.”

A pained expression crossed Rodimus’ face.

Predacon transformed to beast mode and flexed his spine. “I can see my fable made little impression on you,” he sneered. “For now, at least. I’ll choose to place my faith in your intelligence; given time, you’ll heed the wisdom of my words.”

He turned to go.

“Wait,” Rodimus called. “There’s something you should know.”

“Yes?”

The cavalier looked at him earnestly. “Those who won’t accept peace must weather the storm on their own,” he said, oddly solemn. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t be told to batten down the hatches." He took a breath. “Flame Convoy is alive,” he said solemnly. “He’s here on Earth. And… he’s looking for _you_.”

\-----

The first thing Side Burn registered was his inverted orientation. Once he’d turned right-side up, he discovered he was in a capsule. With the rebooting of sensor relays came the dawning horror that he was standing inside the Transmetal driver.

More than a decade of repressed panic manifested as claustrophobia. The Mini-con drove his fists, again and again, into the clear plasteel of the recipient tube. When that failed to work, he powered up the laser blaster built into the underside of his left arm. Setting it for a long, high-temperature burst, he fired at the transparent barrier. Maddeningly, it blistered but would not melt.

“You’re only burning oxygen,” a haunting voice lilted. “Bad idea. In a minute, you’re going to need all that air to fill your new lungs.”

Skid-Z had materialised in front of him, his face plate pressed up against the tube wall. “What’s it like, being in there?” he asked with genuine – if malevolent – curiosity. “I’ve sat in that receptacle many times, you know, but I never got to focus on the sensation. Probably because I knew, deep in my Spark, that it wasn’t going to work… that I’d _still_ be unworthy… that I was too inferior to become a Transmetal.”

His tone grew nastier. “You don’t have that problem,” he hissed. “All you have is ignorance. You’re 100 per cent perfect for the organic grafting, but you keep saying no. Predacon allows that because he’s such a great guy… but I can’t _stand_ it.”

“Skid-Z,” Side Burn begged, “for the love of Primus, please, let me out. Let me out!”

“It’s a problem of perspective,” Skid-Z said, ignoring him. “You can’t conceive of the sheer beauty of being technorganic and so you refuse it; you fear what you don’t truly understand. We have opposing difficulties, Side Burn… I have the software, you have the hardware. So I figured it was time we both did something about that.”

Frantic, twisting in his see-through prison, Side Burn caught sight of the donor pods. Two of the women were in each of the flower-like buds, screaming hysterically. The hideous process had already begun; unspeakable machinery flayed and filleted them for their “precious” organic components. As an Autobot… as a living being… he was _repulsed_ by the grisly harvest.

“Phase one,” Skid-Z offered simply. “Phase two is grafting their best qualities to you.” He strode toward to the master control panel. “Phase three is keeping you on ice until I can get a hold of Downshift’s Spark-catcher and then…” he laughed. “Phase four is tearing your ungrateful Spark out of your wonderful body, and giving your chassis over to someone who understands what a blessing it is.”

“You’re out of your frelling mind,” Side Burn wailed, throwing himself at the plasteel.

Skid-Z nodded ruefully. “Maybe,” he drawled, “but it won’t matter soon. Because even if I am crazy, at least I’ll be _perfect._ ”

The staccato thunder of machine gun fire filled the room. A burst of Teflon-coated bullets tore through Skid-Z’s right shoulder joint, severing the arm in a shower of sparks and a gush of oil. The Mini-con grunted and dropped to his knees, just inches from the master control panel. A second hail of gunfire similarly destroyed his left knee.

Predacon stepped into the room, dinosaur fingertips smoking. His saurian features were hard, set in the most unflattering and uncompromising of expressions. He transformed to robot mode as he walked, batting the control panel with his left hand. The recipient tube opened and Side Burn gratefully tumbled out, clutching his frame to make sure it was still composed entirely of metal. Satisfied, he looked up in time to see Insecticon crawl into the room, cackling softly to himself.

“Predacon?” Skid-Z asked, incredulous and anguished. “What…”

“Silence,” the Transmetal dinosaur rumbled. “If I am wrong, Skid-Z, both apologies and repairs will be rendered freely. Should I be right, then savour these moments – for in them you endure the least of the pain you shall suffer this day.”

Insecticon bustled past them all and transformed. He looked up at the donor pods and tutted. “Four more by my count,” he said, his voice sounding like cracking wood. “This alone is proof of what I’ve told you, Predacon. But there’s more, as I learned earlier today.” He tapped at the control panel; a section of the floor slid away to reveal a mass grave. Bones, unmistakeably human, filled the nauseating repository. Another tap caused machine arms to scoop the remains of the newest victims into the macabre pit.

Predacon’s stare was death itself. “Heretic,” he spat. “Filthy, traitorous heretic! Bad enough that you betray us, Skid-Z, that you sully the Path by revealing its secrets to outside forces. But this infamy cannot be countenanced! No. Your actions are not the paltry betrayals of allegiance; they are blades in the very heart of faith!”

Skid-Z pulled himself up to speak – a single bullet tore through his throat.

“You _will_ be silent,” Predacon growled, his face a mask of pain and anger. “You will! For I will hear none of your prattling, your false platitudes! We are at war, Skid-Z – a holy war for our very survival! We of the Path must not simply conquer our foes, now, but our own past if we are to guarantee any sort of future!

“And in the midst of such concerns do I find you, besmirching us with your foul touch. All this time, Mini-con, and still you fail to grasp the meaning behind our lifestyle. One does not become a Transmetal to attain power, Skid-Z. Our goals are not so base.

“Rending the flesh of another living being, melding it with one’s own form, is the _holiest of rites_ , open only to the willing and worthy! And it is certainly not something that can be sullied with the unhealthy skin of disgusting _humans_!”

Skid-Z had started crawling as best he could, though Side Burn couldn’t tell where he thought he could go. Insecticon watched the grotesque spectacle with a gleam in his optics. Predacon was stiff, almost hurt-looking.

“The True Path leads to _perfection_ , to advancement, to the glorious evolution that is the birthright of the entire Transformer race,” he breathed. “But it is a perfection that can only be attained by the chosen. Your traitorous ways show, clearly, that your genetic imperfections are so rife that they have and will continue to manifest themselves in every facet of your being. You… are _unclean._ ”

He raised a silver fist and made a slight gesture – the door to the lab opened and, with barely a sound, Battle Ravage slunk into the room. His jaws were open and he was slavering, oil and drool dripping from his bared fangs.

“Only the purest of warriors could remove this stain from our holy parchments,” Predacon said reverently. “Excommunication is not enough, Skid-Z… you must be _erased_ from our past, as must all traitors. _Only then, once their bones are ground finer than dust in the air, and their circuitry liquefied so as to be indistinguishable from water, shall infidels be silenced._ ”

Battle Ravage growled, long and low. Side Burn didn’t need Divebomb around to have “Amen” translated for him.

The jaguar leaped. Skid-Z, despite his half-ruined throat, screamed louder and more wretchedly than had any of the human females.

\-----

Buzzsaw’s scream echoed through the underground lair. Reptilion was in beast mode and running almost before he registered it; his instincts honed by a thousand propulsion experiments and their fiery aftermaths.

“What is the purpose behind your shrieking?” he demanded. “Are we assaulted?”

The neon green helicopter was, unbelievably, _dancing_ around the communications array. “It happiezzt day in Buzzsaw’zz whole life,” he enthused, all but exploding with joy. “Little icky sticky botzz finally did zzomething right, and now Lizard Lipzz and Buzzsaw get _big_ reward for all our hard work!”

Transforming, pushing the giggling fool out of his way, Reptilion sat down at the console. The sonar resonance image, flickering on the screen, brought a tear to his organic right eye. Kremzeek and those near-mindless drones had made good on their word, locating – after all this time – the item beneath the Gigalonian surface so desired by the True Path.

It was, of course, in the one sector of the planet that had not been mined to starvation. Its nose was pointed toward the planet’s nearly-exposed core; its four-pronged crystal engine breached the surface but was obscured by mud and silt, appearing to be just another mesa. Four spherical command bridges rose from its thick, tapering midsection; two of them directly above long, thin, protruding observation galleries.

“I shall call Predacon immediately,” Reptilion said, to himself, out of sheer disbelief. “I shall tell him that we have located the star ship that brought Metroplex and his Cybertronian exiles to Gigalonia.

“At last, the Omega Lock belongs to the True Path.”


End file.
